


begging for you to touch me, even if it becomes a wound.

by faucer



Series: hurting for a very hurtful pain AU [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Other, Soulmates, Suicide mention, feeling the pain of your soulmate AU, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 13:03:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16913352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faucer/pseuds/faucer





	begging for you to touch me, even if it becomes a wound.

“it’s your soulmate. perhaps a problematic one.” the doctor gently places the stethoscope down on his chest, covered by a white coat, under it a cyan shirt “do you know them?” you nod but he doesn’t look at you, intent in prescribing light analgesics. you don’t blame him, that’s really all he can do “don’t– don’t you have something stronger?” he arches his left eyebrow, tiny oval glasses almost falling from the edge of his nose’s bridge, a pair of two penetrating and skeptical eyes judging you “this is the correct dosage, heavier ones would only do you bad.” muttering a sigh you take the scribbled piece of paper. ‘he’s already doing me bad’, you’d like to say but it would be useless. yes, useless. useless is what he hates the most. he hates stupid useless human formalities. he hates stupid useless human emotions. he hates stupid useless human pain. he hates stupid useless humans. he hates the stupid useless human you. rather, maybe hate is too a strong word. it would be ten thousand times better if he hated you– he simply ignores you.  
and that hurts more than a bullet piercing your skull.  
the same bullet splitting open his cranium right now, making you wake up with a loud gasp, enclosed by the darkness surrounding you. he’s dead. the throbbing agony inside you a clear proof of that. it’s the third– no, probably it’s the second night in a row this month. you’re worried. for the two of you. still deceiving yourself about the ‘bond’ in common. soulmate. he would never call you that.  
you close your lids, clutching your trembling hand against your heart.  
while lying back on the mattress you stare at your phone for some sort of sign; in the insanity of the moment you might have the urge to write him a text.

a week later he comes to your house.  
after having passionless sex with you he’s quick to put on his cyberlife’s clothes again. regretlessly leaving the warm bed you both shared.  
he scans the orange bottle without touching it, too busy pressing his perfect jacket in order “you’re taking medications” it’s not a statement nor a question, yet your heartbeat picks up when he gets slightly interested in the pills on your nightstand. are you excited? are you worried? do you yearn for him so much that his pity makes you glad?  
is he capable of feeling pity in the first place?  
“yes” you murmur while grabbing the vaguely greenish blanket and hiding your messy form up to your collarbone.  
“would you stop having them if I asked you?”  
breath pauses in your throat and you choke few insecure sobs “I need them” is this not enough for him? is it not enough to make you suffer the excruciating death of a dog left bleeding in a cold detroit’s backstreet badly yellowly lit by a lamp?  
“and I need to work without  _your_ anguish occluding my thirium pump but it would appear that such thing is impossible” his frame is filling the whole door’s space and even when he’s scolding you the sole thought crossing your mind is how you would love to understand, just once, what it feels to be lovingly held by him “instead I’m  _stuck_ with the obligation to perform sexual intercourse with  _you_ to alleviate the neverending ache in  _your_ ribcage.” he grits harsh words, never bothering about the torment slowly swelling, boiling, bubbling aflame in the pit of his stomach “since drugs don’t work on androids wouldn’t it be only fair for you to  _feel_ the same as me?” broad shoulders a firm image burnt on your memory but you know that on his face there is a subtle hauntingly smile “I expect you to have them thrown away next time.”  
it is, indeed, true, you guess, as you fling that stupid clinking shit into the bin, that sometimes it happens to share your forests with pyromaniacs.

the following day you commit suicide.


End file.
